Page 22 of Westin

His fist closes, crushing them as he brings them to his face, and my jaw drops. Heat rushes through my veins and pulses in my bare pussy. I shaved the other day; I have no idea why, but now I’m glad I did, because I’m so sensitive. My hips shift, and I feel soft skin and wet arousal.

I’m ready.

At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.

“Please,” I whisper.

He cocks his head. “Please?”

“I need you.”

He rises, and suddenly, I’m looking straight at him, hard in his pants. I swallow, staring at the rise under the zipper. There's a raw drumbeat spinning out of control between my thighs, and I tilt my head back as he lifts me by the waist to lay me out on my bed.

He shifts between my thighs. His boots clatter to the ground, and the rough fabric of his pants pushes up as he cocks his knee. His muscled thigh presses against my bare sex. I gasp, resisting the urge to rub myself on his leg.

“It’s gonna hurt, darling,” he says.

I nod, swallowing. The air between us feels heated, almost feverish. My hands slip up between us and plant flat on his chest, feeling the muscle rippling beneath his shirt.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know what I want. Dizzy, I find the buttons and start undoing them.

One after the other, until they fall open.

My eyes drop.

He’s well-muscled, the kind that comes from hard, physical labor, so perfectly imperfect with ridges and scars. My eyes move lower, following the dark trail from his navel down to his belt. My fingertips hover over the hair on his chest, and then I run them through it, mesmerized by him.

He turns to toss his shirt, and my eyes widen. Across his upper back, he’s got a single word etched into his muscled shoulders, almost like…like someone branded him.

Gunslinger.

My stomach twists.

He’s not like the boys my age.

He’s a man, and not a very domesticated one. Maybe, if I’m being truthful with myself, he’s too old and too dangerous to be in my bed.

But God, I need him.

His lids flicker, and his hand runs up my hip, moving along my side to tug my zipper down. For a second, I want to hesitate. No one has ever seen my breasts before.

I clear my throat, and his hands pause, his bright eyes inches from mine.

“Why do you have that word on your back?” I ask tentatively.

His eyes flick down, like he’s hiding something.

“I had a job, and I fucked it up,” he says. “That’s what I got for getting caught. Could have been a lot worse.”

He tugs at my dress, and it slips down my body. His eyes are distracted, lingering on my bra. I made it—I make most of my clothes—and I feel a little pride that he likes what he sees. I’m a good seamstress.

Or maybe he’s just looking at my breasts. That’s more likely.

“Is the word…a scar or a brand?” I whisper.

“It’s a brand,” he says.

I don’t have time to process his words before his hands are on my back, flicking my bra open. He peels it off, and my breasts fall out, exposed.

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